


GhostWolf: Bonners Ferry

by AJGhostWolf



Series: Codename: GhostWolf [1]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27945833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJGhostWolf/pseuds/AJGhostWolf
Summary: A highly decorated Veteran has joined the BAU team as a sort of protection. He's tough, capable, and doesn't back up very easy. Just what the team needs. But a new case turns sour, and the hunters become the hunted. The team is battling the elements, mercenaries, and each other. They'll have to become something else to survive and finish the case, in that order. Something less than human, something they may not be able to come back from.
Series: Codename: GhostWolf [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2046554





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, y'all, I'm back. I apologize for not posting like at all the past month, I've shifted work and having free time has been so nice I've kinda just ignored this part of my life. But I'm back and working on wrapping up some of my works and posting new ones, like this.   
> (Rated Teen+ for language and violence)  
> Please keep in mind that some of the opinions and actions written in this fic are not shared or condoned by the author. Simply makes for more world-accurate writing and better character development. Conflict from every side is a core part of this story, and it makes it easier to write. Also, the team is made up of the people I liked throughout the series, not necessarily from any particular season.   
> As always, thanks for taking the time to check this out and I hope you enjoy it, it will be multiple chapters and perhaps even eventually a series of sorts. Seeing as the show ended, someone's gotta keep the flame alive. (PS, in the future I'm thinking of doing a Criminal Minds Chicago PD/Fire crossover, so lemme know if you'd like to see that and I'll start working on it. Anyway, enjoy the story and let me know what you think of it!

A.G. Caldeau was out of bed at three-forty-five, in his truck at four-thirty, and in the front of his new work building at five-fifteen. He was approved by all of the security and red-tapers and made his way up to the floor he’d been instructed to, feeling very little trepidation and mostly a sort of intrigue. 

_ What kind of FBI unit needed protection?  _

He was certainly about to find out. 

Caldeau was a member of the D.V.H., Decorated Veterans for Hire. He had been a Ranger, a Green Beret, a SEAL trainer, and held several more positions as a recon and defence expert that confirmed what he was: a man who liked to fight, and one you didn’t mess with. 

He was average height, had just turned fifty, and had prematurely white hair and mustache. He religiously wore jeans, square-toed cowboy boots, and either a well-kept straw cowboy hat or a black beret. He packed a Ruger .45 and a six-inch buck knife like his life depended on it, because it often enough did. In his bag were partially disassembled M762 and SKS guns and all of the necessary attachments and ammunition for them and the Ruger. 

His eyes were black and added to his hawk-like features and startling copper skin. His mother was a native Nez Perce tribeswoman, and his father was half Lakota-Sioux and half Caribbean. 

Caldeau stepped from the elevator, his black bug-out bag slung over his left shoulder and the right swinging close to his Ruger, like normal. The D.V.H. badge on his belt just in front of said Ruger. 

He made his way up to the office he’d been verbally given directions to, an office within offices. 

He knocked once before entering, saluting the man behind the desk with only the appropriate rigor. “Agent Hotchner, sir. A.G. Caldeau of D.V.H. reporting.” He handed the also hawk-like man a file of paperwork. “My papers and weapon’s registration, sir.” 

Hotchner stood and shook his hand, placing the file to the side on his desk. “Thank you, mister Caldeau. What title do you prefer?” 

“Just Caldeau, sir.” 

“Very good. You’re just on time, Caldeau. We have received a case.” Hotchner began quickly collecting his necessary materials

Caldeau nodded. “Yes sir. May I ask, sir, why you need a D.V.H. officer? It . . . . strikes me as a little strange.” 

Hotchner gave a small smile, continuing to pack his files. “We are an almost one-hundred percent mobile team, we can’t have a contingent of FBI at our disposal whenever we’d like. And, my team has unique challenges and requests that dictate outsourcing. You were a very good fit.” 

Caldeau nodded understanding, and Hotchner stuffed his paperwork and case tablet into his go-bag and motioned for the door. “We don’t have time for our usual office meeting, so you’ll meet everyone as we review the case file on the plane.” 

* * * * *

Everyone was already on the plane when they arrived, settling in and conducting their opening case-file overview. The jet was already warming up for takeoff. They had been informed, and had individually contributed to the conditions of employment, about a D.V.H. member joining their team, and on the whole were pretty okay with it. 

Morgan was a little irritated, but there wasn’t much helping that. He had put in a lot of suggestions himself, so there also wasn’t much he could say about it. 

Caldeau placed his bag in a seat near the cabin door and the cockpit, and coincidentally but happily the coffeemaker, and moved to join the gathering going over the case file. His objective might be the safety of the BAU team, not their cases, but damned if he wasn’t interested. Anyone that got scum off the streets was well-worthy of a little piqued interest into their process. 

Hotchner half-distractedly waved a hand at Caldeau while flipping through his tablet. “D.V.H. officer Caldeau, the BAU team. I trust after the review we’ll have icebreakers of sorts. Until then . . . .” 

A woman on a tablet screen who had been listening in chimed in at that. “Yes, hi, I’m Penelope Garcia, the Technical Analyst. Uhh, yes, we have an urgent case from Bonners Ferry, Idaho. Three dead teenagers have been discovered, fourteen, sixteen, and seventeen, and two infants, two and three. The infants male, teenagers female. All were . . . . badly molested.” 

There was a collective disgusted hiss from the group. It was going to be a bad one. 

“They were physically tortured to death. The local LEOs are trying to solve the case, but two more children have disappeared. Mary Steppes, twelve, and Gar Hanson, four. Gar is the Boundary County Sheriff’s grandson. His name is Cable Ganton.” 

An older, dark-complexioned man quirked an eyebrow. “The file says that the state requested our help, not Bonners Ferry or Boundary county. Are they worried about Ganton going rogue?” 

Caldeau noticed a jagged scar on his left cheek that he recognized as being caused by the man’s own teeth. Another scar along his hairline, likely from a pistol-whipping. They were no more than a few years old. It appeared that criminal profiling was a more dangerous work than it appeared. 

A dark-haired, severe-looking woman leafed through the documents and said, “Ganton’s reports indicate he suspects someone from a bigger county, maybe a politician or businessman that can’t risk targeting his victims in his local area. It wouldn’t be implausible.” 

Hotchner shook his head. “It’s very possible, but we have to remain objective and keep our minds open. The Unsub’s obviously not about to stop anytime soon, so we have to stop him as soon as possible.” 

The dark man with the scars smiled thinly. “Then let’s go get this bastard!” 

* * * * *

The review didn’t last much longer after that, primarily becoming about booking emergency hotel rooms, renting SUVs, and looping in the police department and the Sheriff’s office to discuss jurisdictional technicalities. Being as they were in a three-hour difference time zone, they didn’t expect most everyone who was going to be working with them throughout to already be in the office, but it appeared that no one had left for a while in light of the emergency. Small town life at its best and worst. 

They asked for a conference room and county maps to be set up in the Sheriff's Office building for their arrival in a few hours, and for the lead investigators to meet them there. The more efficiently they handled the case, the quicker it would be solved. 

Hotchner made sure to stress that point to the Sheriff’s receptionist, hoping she’d pass it along to Ganton himself. He was fifty-percent likely to despise their help, and fifty-percent to welcome it. Or at least, welcome it until the end and then arrange his own plans for justice. 

Personally, hell yeah Caldeau would do the same thing. He didn’t have any family, but he’d killed men for less. Much less. On and off of U.S. soil. 

When arrangements were finally finished and the busy schedule put together, Hotchner reintroduced himself to Caldeau and passed it along to the scarred-up man, who shook hands. 

“David Rossi, been here for a long old time.” 

Caldeau nodded solemnly. “I’ve read several of your books, when I was overseas. Always enjoyed them.” 

Rossi gave him a thin smile. “Thanks.” 

The dark-haired woman, “Emily Prentiss, former Interpol.” 

“Alex Blake, linguist specialist.” 

“Jennifer Jareau, J.J. for short.” 

“Stephen Walker.” 

“Derek Morgan.” He smiled and jibed, “Whom’s job you took.” 

Caldeau gave him a slight smile. “There’s more than enough asses here to be watched for the two of us, agent.” 

It earned him a chuckle of laughter from most of the team. 

“I’m Spencer Reid,” a stick-like character then told him, waving awkwardly. He obviously had had to have the Quantico physical waved for him. “I have multiple doctorates.” 

Caldeau nodded back respectfully. 

“And you’ve met Garcia,” Hotch finished out. “Two of our usual pilots, Barker and Fuentes, are in the cockpit. And of course, you know Strauss from your interview. So, your turn.” 

Caldeau nodded again and launched into his spiel. “I’m A.G. Caldeau. Former Ranger, Beret, and SEAL instructor. I’m trained in recon and breach tactics. It’s a pleasure to be working with you, and I look forward to keeping you safe.” 

Walker whistled lowly. “Good credentials.” 

“Rare credentials,” Prentiss added. 

Caldeau shrugged. “I was available, you were hiring.” He gave a small smile and jabbed, “And someone’s gotta keep you red-tapers in check.” 


	2. Chapter 2

They landed at six in the morning, Boundary County time, and had three waiting SUVs, dark variants of grey or blue, on the tarmac for them. Another dark grey SUV with a Sheriff decal on the side sat slightly away from them, lights on and the sunglass-ed occupant leaning against the hood, watching them as they unboarded. 

Cable Ganton, no doubt, Caldeau immediately pegged. 

After a glance at Hotch to confirm it was his place to do so, Caldeau slung his bag and approached Ganton himself. Rossi wasn’t far behind. 

He stuck his hand out and shook with Ganton, a tall and rangy man who looked like where he was from. “D.V.H. officer Caldeau.” He knew with grief and rage, it was best to be blunt and to the point. 

Ganton shook with him and Rossi, then removed his grey cowboy hat with one hand and ran the other through silver hair. He, like Caldeau, had a wide mustache and several days worth of stubble. His was probably more due to exhaustion and shitty priorities than choice, however. “Ganton. You’re FBI, too, right?” 

“Yes, sir,” Rossi said, producing his badge. “We’ll try to help as much as possible.” 

Caldeau noticed a flare of anger slip through Ganton’s eyes, but the man just shook his head and rubbed his eyes in tiredness. “Thank you,” he sighed. “Whenever your team’s ready . . . .” 

He made as if to get back into his car, then suddenly turned around. “I do appreciate the help, but we do things a certain way here. Y’all are outsiders, in some cases I’ll need you to take a step back and let me handle things.” 

Rossi nodded complacently. “Of course, Sheriff. We wouldn’t expect anything else.” 

Ganton just nodded stiffly at them and climbed into his car, switching out his lights and driving off the tarmac, tossing a wave at the office people, who were sitting outside smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. 

“Hell of a situation,” Rossi said grimly. 

“I sure don’t envy it. You reckon the boy’s still alive?” 

Rossi shook his head. “It’s just a tossup at this point, I’m afraid. Chances are pretty high that he’s already been killed.” 

* * * * *

“What do you have, Garcia?” Hotch asked as the team settled into the conference room. 

_ “Plenty, _ is everyone there?” 

“Everyone except Caldeau. He’s checking building security.” His mouth had the hints of a smile in the corners. 

“Oh, well, if we’re on that subject . . . . I may have found something there too . . . .” 

Interest piqued, Hotch frowned slightly. “Go ahead.” 

“Back in twenty-ten, our friend Mister Caldeau was working with local police to, you guessed it, help train them in breaching and securing tactics. They breached on an ‘armed and dangerous’ warrant and found the man trying to,” her shudder was audible, “ _ microwave _ his children’s kitten over a marital disagreement.” 

Eyebrows in the room went up. 

“Caldeau saved the kitten and . . . . then beat the man to death.” 

There was stunned silence. “That wasn’t in his file,” Blake said quietly. 

“It was ruled justifiable, because every other officer in the home corroborated that the man resisted arrest. He was never charged and only attended a few short court sessions.” 

Everyone took a moment to digest that. “So don’t microwave cats around this guy?” Morgan tried eventually, earning smiles. 

“What do you have about the case, Garcia?” Hotch prompted, not wanting a distraction from their priority. 

“Oh I have some juicy news there too. They match the profile of six murders committed fifteen years ago. Perfectly.” 

* * * * *

A drizzle had started as the crew headed for their hotel rooms, and Rossi, who had bunked up with Caldeau and Hotch, limped to the door, cussing quietly all the while. 

Caldeau didn’t verbally ask, but he did send a look at Hotch that made it clear he would like to know what happened, in case it became pertinent to protecting them. 

“The team was kidnapped twenty-one months or so ago, and Dave in particular was abused very badly. It was a heavily contributing factor to asking you to join our team.” 

Caldeau nodded sagely. “The timetable of bureaucracy.” 

Hotch grunted an almost laugh and moved into the hotel room. They had seven hours to sleep, eat, and collect themselves before joining the local P.D. in the morning and officially beginning their investigation. 

Because ten people were wholly unnecessary for dialling phones and giving Garcia tasks, Caldeau, Morgan, Blake, and Walker would be split up to join Search and Rescue and Sheriff’s officers to make double-damn sure the kids weren’t just lost, or that it wasn’t a previously convicted or jailed troublemaker. With his years of experience in both S’n’R and field work, Caldeau was a far more valuable resource in the field than sticking strictly to his job description. 

Caldeau was joining Ganton’s mounted posse, a group of horsemen that would comb typically inaccessible property east and west of Bonner’s Ferry. Someone was loaning him a horse and tack, or it would have been a mighty tough assignment, but he was a skilled horseman and cowboy, so he was pleased to have been offered the job. 

They settled into the small hotel room, looking for all the world exactly how it had probably had back when it was either built or refurbed back in the eighties. Popcorn-spray ceiling, dark faux-wood panel walls, carpet that would probably drain solid black goo if someone wrung it out. Originally it could have been lime green, but it was now a deep emerald shade that faded to black as it touched the thin walls. The whole room smelled strongly of rank carpet conditioner, probably to hide the smell of decades of cigarette smoke. There were scorch marks every two or three feet in any direction. 

The tiny kitchen area was just a sink, a square foot of counter, mini fridge, microwave, and the latest model of large and cheap coffee makers, an ugly black bug-like thing that sat in a little hulk on the foot-counter, taking up a good seventy percent of the dark yellow peel-and-stick type tabletop laminant. 

There were two twin beds, white sheets turned half-brown made up tightly and at least smelling fresh-laundered. The staff had set up an army cot they’d probably bought from a resell or disaster-supply store a decade ago and made it up with a tiny blow-up mattress and spare mish-mashed bedding. 

Caldeau didn’t even let either of the FBI think of taking the cot, he simply set his bag next to it and started stripping the thing. He’d never been given, or allowed himself, the luxury of a lumpy air mattress on top of a cot and wasn’t about to start. He leaned the already half-deflated and sad thing against the wall and folded the sheets and blankets in front of it. He had a sleeping bag and the clothes on his back, it wouldn’t be comfortable using anything else while working. 

All three men took turns with the Three-S routine, shit shower shave, in the badly-tiled bathroom and started getting ready to pass out for five or six hours. It was a line of work where a person’s body learned to sleep as fast as it could wherever it could if it wanted to sleep at all, so they were hard out five minutes after the lights went off. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit of a reference to one of my other fics in this chapter, An Intrigue of Torture, which is here on AO3 if you're interested in it. It still isn't finished as of this date, but I'm working it. Thanks for the patience!  
> Please also leave your thoughts and suggestions, I, shockingly, actually have a pretty clear mental path for where I want this to head, but as they say, the stream can meander a bit until it gets there. Hope you enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is the end of the prepared material I had so far. I've got probably ten or so pages of random pieces to just sew together among the next chapters, so I hope this will be enough to whet your apatite for now. I have a pretty clear direction for this to head, but thoughts and suggestions are always appreciated and motivate me to keep writing!   
> I will again remind that not all opinions and actions are condoned by the author, they are mostly character-building devices. Some I do agree with, but I'll leave you in the lurch to guess. Anyway, hope you enjoy, and hope your day is nice!

An older man in an old crew cab Ford towing a horse trailer picked up the four S’n’R elected team members at oh-four-thirty sharp. He was a hard and weathered creature that looked even more like a small-town cowboy than Ganton. There was some native blood in there somewhere, Caldeau predicted. The man had the piercing black eyes and whip-thin body, all muscle and sinew and cussedness. Cockroaches had nothing on men like Mack Briggs. 

Briggs took them to the edge of the units they’d be patrolling, into a small clearing that had obviously been used a lot as a campsite in the past. A good forty people were already there, with everything between with expensive motorbikes and scruffy fifty-dollar mules. One woman had two mixed-breed dogs with cameras in harnesses sitting by her feet. To a person they all resembled Briggs in some way, physically but mostly projectionally. They all had the same vibe to them,  _ this is our home and our community and our responsibility. _

They were  _ not  _ people that ran to the government for being slighted or hurt. They were the people who ran the short distance to their shotguns and rifles first. 

Caldeau had seen similar people all over the nation knock County Sheriff’s and Big Gov’t Men on their asses for smartass remarks. They were too tough to be pushed around by “them gawd-damned hanky-stompin’ crybabyin’ hand-holdin’ sacks of wet backboneless shit!” 

They were also a blunt sort. 

Horses were rolled out and tacked up, a wide variety of colors and probably breeding but all around solid. Caldeau was of the mood to select the one that looked to have the biggest cold-spot, meaning he was a ‘fiesty’ starter. 

They had all packed extra supplies and coats and blankets, and Caldeau had been careful to package coffee in his saddlebags too. Little else could lift bad spirits like the smell of hot joe. 

He also assembled the ‘modded SKS and put it in the saddle boot before tying his bag to the saddle. Just in case, because no matter how much people liked to piss and moan about mountain lions being endangered and reclusive, they really were not. Caldeau knew of three separate people who had either been stalked or attacked by pumas, two of them in semi-residential areas. And the big cats could be several times as dangerous when a person entered their territory. Not to mention moose, bear, elk, deer, cattle, wild horses, coyotes, badgers, and everything else that could get cocky and dangerous pretty damned quickly. Especially snakes like rattlers. The chances of animal attack were low, but never ever zero. 

Blake had experience with horses, so she was also brought a cowpony, and the other two were given the choice of dirt bike or quad. Walker chose quad, Morgan chose bike. It was clear and understood that no one could afford to waste time trying to keep an extra eye on two green hands fresh into the saddle, they would get a quick course on their motorized decision but that was it; they had bigger problems and everyone needed to be as sharp as physically possible. 

The loud groups of four wheelers and dirt bikes would be patrolling the trails and shouting and doing the typical search party routine. Those on horseback would be conducting quieter searches, trying to stay hidden and unseen. Just in case it was a suspect they were going to find, not a child. Or, the better situation, a scared child. 

Everyone desperately hoped it would be the latter. Most still felt that hope was futile. They wanted to believe, but deep down they knew they would never bring their children, or their community’s peace and trust, back again. 

* * * * *

It was a long and cold day, as winter was starting to hedge in. And they found nothing. All of the generous civilians and ranchers and townspeople packed it in shortly after getting back; they had families and pets and homes to take care of before the day was out. 

Standing around a fire back at their starting point for coffee and sandwiches, Ganton sighed and said to the team, “I’m going to involve the local militia group--” 

Morgan interrupted him. “Are you sure that would be a good idea? Buncha rednecks with AR’s and a power complex and a grudge against reasonable people--” 

Ganton’s expression stopped him dead. Ganton slowly stood and stepped right up to Morgan, his haggard face drawn with anger. He was smaller than Morgan, but nobody had any doubt that he could absolutely lay the S.S.A. flat on his ass. 

His cold, cold eyes held Morgan’s as he growled, “Don’t you even start that line of fanatical bullshit with me. And you  _ better _ not start it with any of them. They’ll kill you stone dead.” His tone hadn’t changed, and that was really what made it scary, because he obviously wasn’t kidding. “You goddamn people think you can just come in and take any piece of country by the hair and be in charge. I  _ tol’  _ you it wouldn’t work here. You in your big fancy gov’ment job, all your power, all your  _ awards _ and  _ titles.  _ FBI or no, you say that again and I’ll lay you flat-damn-out. 

“You don’t know one goddamn  _ thing _ about the men and women on the militia. Give me one hard fact about them, dickhead. Give me one hard stone cold truth that you haven’t been spoon-fed by someone who don’t know nuts from butts. You can’t, because you don’t actually know them, you’ve never met them, dipshit.” Now his volume was beginning to creep up. “God I just cannot  _ believe _ how dense and rude you people are.” 

“Why should I care what a group of government-opposed fanatics think?” Morgan popped back, and Hotch could’ve punched him right then for not just  _ keeping his mouth shut.  _

Ganton actually smiled, and it was severely unnerving. “Why indeed? Because if you actually didn’t,  _ asshole,  _ you wouldn’t care if I brought them in. Don’t care my ass. You people just don’t get it, do you. You can’t just go around makin’ moral decisions for people. You are not in control here, goddammit, you are an _ observer.  _ And if you’ve got a problem with that,  _ agent, _ you can try to haul your ass right on out of here.” 

And he stalked away into the pines, body so tensed with anger it was clear that he would have decked Morgan if he’d stayed any longer. 

Morgan looked around at everyone like a sullen child. “Well. I don’t think we should bring those freakin’ gun-nuts into this! Hell they might’ve been the ones to take the kids themselves, I--” 

“Morgan,” Caldeau snapped, face expressionless but eyes dead cold as he came out of the crouch he’d had by the fire. “You’re lettin’ personal issues intervene. Back your shit up, or someone’s gonna have to back it up for you and it’ll turn into a bureaucratic nightmare.” 

Morgan just glared at him for a moment and then looked at Hotch. Hotch just shook his head and Morgan realised how much he’d overstepped. He took a deep breath and half-mumbled, “You’re right, I’m sorry. I’ll go apologize to the Sheriff.” 

Caldeau had resumed his crouch and brought his tin cup of coffee back up. He grimly said around the rim, “I wouldn’t quite yet. Give him some time to cool off. The man’s  _ grandson  _ is on the line, he’s got every right to be P.O.’d right now.” 

* * * * *

Relationships mended, at least with bandaids, they packed it in and Cable radioed the militia. They had seven people active that they would send out right now, would the Sheriff and one or two of the FBI meet them and fill them in at one of the diners? 

So Rossi and Caldeau went with Ganton to start drawing up plans. Hotch was going to be busy talking to Morgan about personal and work boundaries, and Caldeau had quietly been made number three in the chain of command, under Rossi. 

The seven militia members, four men and three women, introduced themselves as Walt Bower, Jensen Lancaster, Nick Usko, Dock Riley, Sam Kerbow, Avery Salas, and Shay Walsh. They were all open-carrying various calibers, and the four pickups they drove in had been outfitted for survival. They were all crewcabs, seventies to eighties in manufacture year, with heavy-duty cabguards, bumpers, brushguards, hitches, winches, and stacks of tool boxes. Every single one had a full rifle rack in the back window, with guns varying from M762s like Caldeau’s to .270 bolt-actions and KSG 12 Gauges. All of the trucks were painted a mix of dark green and brown to blend in with the country around them. 

Similar to their trucks, all seven militia members were tough and weathered, muscled from heavy training and hard work and very confident in the way they handled themselves and their weapons. Caldeau pegged six of them to be former military/LEO, and was pretty sure the seventh, Avery Salas, was firefighter/paramedic/rancher. All around, a tough fuckin’ crowd. 


End file.
